


Buzz-Buzz Joins the Circus

by revolting



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Brainwashing, Burgers to Lovers, Clown Transformation, Existential Crisis, Gen, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Psychological Horror, im dead inside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:12:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolting/pseuds/revolting
Summary: HOT DIGGITY





	

**Author's Note:**

> dont read this

“...And a large drink to go along with,” the follower said into the Wally’s speaker, head bowed in prayer. “Amen.”

He looked up, beaming as his order drifted down from the heavens above. How he was grateful for his dear lord Wally, for His blessings upon them all, for the precious sustenance He brought them. Wally’s gifts were the only thing that kept him alive and the only thing he had to live for. If anything happened to them, he’d be-

“Hey fucker.” A raspy, oily voice roused the follower from his fervor. To his horror, he saw that his meal had been snatched by a scrawny stranger wearing a helmet and a shit-eating grin. The follower gasped and made a move to grab the greasy bag of goodness back but Buzzo dissuaded him with a knife pointed at his jugular. 

Buzzo snickered. “Hope you don’t mind me having this lunch as my own. Sure am famished, and this is the closest source of food I could find.” He shrugged, delighting in the follower’s mortified expression. “You can always get some more, right? It’s not that big of a deal. If you’re really hungry, just find a deer. This place is loaded with ‘em.”

Lowering his knife, Buzzo turned to leave,  but was stopped by the follower’s frightened pleads. “Sir, please, you really don’t want to eat that if you’re an outsider!” Buzzo looked back at the scared little man annoyedly.

“And why’s that, shithead?”

“You see, uh,” the follower hesitated, choosing his words carefully to not anger the blond, “it’s an… acquired taste of sorts. If you haven’t been eating His food for a long time you won’t be acclimated to it, and, uhm, if you’re not acclimated to it, it might, er… Not agree with you.”

“So what? I don’t care if it tastes a little funny. I eat ass all the time. I’ll be fine,” scoffed Buzzo. He gave the follower one last smug look and headed back the way he came with his ill-gotten goods. The follower sighed and shook his weary head. If only this joker knew what he was getting into…

* * *

Buzzo found a nice cranny in the tunnel, plopped himself down, and opened the bag. He winced at the scent that came out: abrasive, putrid, definitely not meant for human consumption… But at the same time, tantalizing in a way the filthy man was all too familiar with. He pulled out the contents -- a burger, some fries, a large soda -- and laid them on the rocky floor. What to start with, what to start with…

He decided to go with the fries, grabbing a handful, and shoving them in his mouth. Immediately the sheer greasiness of the fries made him wince, but he chewed, releasing the savory fry flavors he missed so much from before the Flash. He’d almost forgotten how good food could be after living so long on jerky and Joy. Ravenously, he poured the rest of the fries into his mouth, not even stopping to enjoy them properly. The allure of junk food was one he’d been without for far too long, and his whole body seemed to tingle in anticipation of the rest of the meal.

Looking at his remaining options, Buzzo grabbed the soda, deciding to save the grand prize, the burger, for last. The soda hit his tastebuds like a bolt of lightning; sweet, so sweet, far sweeter than he expected. He jolted back, gasping from the rush of sugar to his system, trying to take some deep breaths to get himself back under control. Somehow, he ended up with quiet, breathy chuckles instead. It was funny,  _ really _ funny, that a mere fountain drink could give him such a shock! What an absolute joke he was!

As he was laughing, he caught sight of himself in his blade and did a double take. Something seemed off about his reflection. He peered at himself, smile melting away with his scrutiny. Was his nose  _ always _ that rounded, or that red? He did have sort of a prominent schnoz, but it seemed like it wasn’t  _ quite  _ right. His lips, too, were different: larger than usual and a little pinkish. Maybe it was some sort of allergic reaction? That wimp he’d stolen from did mention something like that. Buzzo noticed he looked pale, too. He snorted. What kind of allergies would he need to have to get killed or whatever by  _ fast food? _ He mocked the idea in his head and snickered, setting aside his blade and returning to his meal.

Buzzo pushed the straw back between his lips (which felt astonishingly sensitive) and gave a good succ, this time braced for the sickly sweetness. The soda stung and made him thirstier than he’d been before he drank it, but his taste buds were clamoring for more. He felt an itching around his neck and reached up to scratch it. Hives, probably. Good thing his gloves were so smooth and high quali-

Wait. Hold on. Gloves?

He looked down at his hands, which were now covered in white silk gloves. “Holy… Where the hell did  _ these _ come from?” he couldn’t help but wonder aloud. He tried to pull them off but they seemed to be stuck on his hands. Were this a different man he would be bewildered, even afraid, but Buzzo was used to altered reality. Still, though, this was rather strange for a hallucination. What kind of drugs did that Wally prick slip into his food? Buzzo’d love to be hooked up with ‘em.

He shrugged off the gloves for now and finished off the soda, the fizz giving his insides a delightful tingly feeling. The bubbliness seeped into his mood, into his brain; he felt light as a feather and without a care in the world other than getting that fat burg meat into his hungry waiting jaws. Even thinking that phrase made him giggly now.

Unwrapping the burger was difficult, since his hands deemed to be a great deal bigger than he was used to for some reason. Funny. It made him laugh, really. But eventually his slapstick fumbling got the paper open. Excitedly he wrapped his thick lips right around that succulent quarter-pounder as if it was gonna pound him a quarter of the way to heaven. He bit down hard and let the tender, meaty juices fill his mouth like a milky cream pie to the face. Even if the meat was a little rotten, it was beyond blissful, so delightful that the funnyman couldn’t help but moan a little. A shrill, honklike noise emanated from his throat as he swallowed the tasty globs of flesh, causing his cheeks to flush. He covered his mouth, embarrassed. He didn’t know why he was, though. Even if someone else heard him, what would they do? Laugh at him? That was good! It was good to get people to laugh!

That was right. Laughter.  _ Laughter. _ So important. But was it the most important thing to Buzzo? Something felt wrong about this, but he couldn’t put his finger on it… No, it was definitely laughter! It started with an L and everything! The most important thing in the world started with an L, and  the only word he could think of that fit was laughter. He took the opportunity to laugh himself, his atrocious bike horn voice echoing around the walls of the cave.

His skin prickled, a sensation starting from his gloved hands and traveling to the core of his body. Looking down, he grimaced - or rather, grinned - in shock. A harlequin pattern was etching its way through his skin, outlines of diamonds covering him like scales. His skin ached and throbbed, felt like it was being pulled out from his figure, painful yet stimulating. Moaning, he pressed his arms to his sides and felt in surprise just how  _ soft _ his skin was. A look down at his chest revealed that harlequin pattern was more than just an outline now, jet-black and lavender covering the silken surface he could no longer accurately describe as skin.

Realization hit him like a truck. Snapping out of his trance he sprung to his feet (now stretched to accommodate ridiculously large red rubber shoes) and threw the half-eaten burger to the ground. Something was very wrong, but he didn’t know exactly what: his brain was too sludgy to think properly but he could tell that something- no, a  _ lot  _ of things weren't right.

He ran a hand down his face, shuddering. The feeling of cloth on his face instead of the usual fingertips made his skin crawl, especially when parts of his face were so disgustingly  _ sensitive _ thanks to this nasty  _ metamorphosis _ of his. His lips especially, now vivid red and swollen big enough to cover the lower part of his face, sent shivers of sick pleasure deep into his core with each tap of his fingertips. They were ticklish, too- he barely choked down an instinctive giggle as he drew his hand away.

Dread flooded through him. He needed to see the full extent of the damage, he needed to confirm that something was wrong. It was his only hope of keeping his head from being lost in that weird haze, that thoughtless blur where everything was okay despite a million signs of the opposite. He fumbled around the rocky floor with ridiculously clumsy hands, searching for something that could- his bulky fingers felt the handle of his blade and he let out a sharp noise (half squeal and half honk). He could- he could use this! He could use this to take a look at what had gone horribly wrong, to snap himself out of it!!

Bringing the weapon to his face, though, was no easy task. His buffoonish hands had the grace of a bumbling fool, the bumbling fucking fool he was, causing his grasp to be pathetically unstead at best. He fumbled, his withering reflexes just barely keeping him from being sliced and diced, but couldn’t get a firm hold on the damn thing: it kept slipping from his gloves no matter where he grasped it, leaving him in a frantic juggle of danger that only served to bring him more unwanted haziness and unpleasant pleasure. Focusing the last shred of his finesse, he finally snapped it out of the air. Both hands tight around the handle, he took a deep breath and held it to his face to take a good, thorough look.

What a look it was.

His skin was stark white. Inhumanly white. Its texture wasn’t skinlike anymore, its surface instead a sickly cross between powder and paint. His upper eyelids were a shocking, brilliant blue, a skylike shade that would have been beautiful in any situation other than this one. His hair, once frizzy and naturally light blond (“piss blond” as he used to describe it- was it him who called it that? He could barely remember a thing) had straightened out, the color dirtied and perverted into a putrid shade of green. These were all minor troubles to him, though, compared to the abomination that his nose had become.

“Small” had never been a fitting descriptor for the man’s nose, and he’d be the first to admit that. But the size it had become, the horrifying, tantalizing bright red grapefruit of a proboscis now grafted to his face smacked his pride in the solar plexus. What had happened to the well-shaped center of his face, the  _ pièce  _ _ de résistance _ of his good looks? A three-ring mess of emotions struck him: sick, disgusted, revolted, violated to his very  _ core _ , and yet…  _ Aroused. _

He let the blade drop from his hands. Awful. An absolute disgrace. Unable to resist, he let his gloved hands travel up to that round, red, juicy prank upon god. Horrible. Completely, utterly irredeemable in any sense of the word. Fingertips trembling, eager, he caressed it, bracing himself for any delight- no, any depravity that could happen.

He squeezed, and out rang a honk. No orgasmic release, no gut-twisting pain, not even an awakening from this nightmare on cloud nine. Just a honk, and that was it.

It was the funniest thing he had ever heard.

Buzzo (Buzzo?) burst out laughing, wheezing for breath. It was all such a joke! Such a  _ cruel fucking joke! _ He couldn’t keep himself together, he couldn’t help but sob, tears splattering the ground he could just barely keep himself off of. Buzzo howled, Buzzo? shrieked,  _ Buzzo? _ hacked, his punchline of a body quivering as he laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. It was torture, it was bliss, it was murder, it was ecstasy, it was heaven and hell and he was the jester fated to be the butt of the cosmos’s funniest joke. Buzzo…? Who was Buzzo? A different man. A man long gone in the course of a few hours. Buzzo was dead. Dead and decayed away to reveal the horror within.

He was Boo Boo the Fool now.

* * *

 

The influence of Joy in Olathe faltered in the weeks following. Rumors circulated that the acting leader of the Joy boys had vanished, though no one confirmed or denied it. The higher-ups insisted he was in a different part of Olathe at the moment, the old scientist he answered to said only that he was a very busy man. Answers were few and far between, leaving the mood regarding his absence a mix of unease and relief.

A pious man in a secluded foothill village exited his friend’s house on the edge of town. It was an overcast evening, the clouds molding starlight into something sharp and unnerving, the shadows pulled long and enveloping like taffy. He shivered; it was a chilly night.

  
He could’ve sworn he heard a cackle from the nearby cave.

**Author's Note:**

> why did you read this


End file.
